


Immensely Powerful and Desperately in Love

by kremlinology (orphan_account)



Category: Political RPF - Russian 21st c.
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Politislash, Ruspol, Russia, Smut, characters overanalyzing things is my favorite kind of unnecessary filler material, dont look at me lmao, ok mostly smut, polifics, putvedev, this is so dumb, why am i like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-05-27 02:52:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6266593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/kremlinology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a cold spring day in 2014, amidst the buzz and panic of the Ukrainian crisis and the G8 thing and everything else, Dmitry Medvedev is paid an unexpected visit in his office. And who knew something like that could be the first of a series of small explosions which will forever shape the course of his life, for better or for worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In His Office

The light in the room was dimming. It was nearly five o'clock. A cool breeze whistled outside, leaving the sharp cold fingerprints of spring rain on the windows. Watching the rain fall, Dmitry Anatolyevich Medvedev subconsciously lifted his hand to turn up his coat collar. Realizing suddenly that he was inside, and that he wasn't wearing a coat, he looked around sheepishly, as if hoping nobody had noticed.

His office was empty. But he was on camera, and, as horrendously low as he knew the video resolution was, he felt that he should at least imitate professionalism. Smiling blandly to himself, he turned back to his desk, and, switching on a lamp to fend off the advancing darkness of the early spring evening, returned to his work.

He had barely recovered his place in the report he'd been reading when the sound of a hand turning his doorknob made him look up. He was surprised for a second, and hurriedly shuffled some papers around to make his desk look more tidy. He assumed that it was probably the lady from the kitchen, coming with his coffee - but he didn't recall having asked for coffee this evening. Oh, well. He must have. He was becoming more absent-minded as he aged, he thought.

Vladimir--he smiled at the idea--would tell him to get some sleep.

He didn't look up right away, preferring to read to the end of his sentence first, and so, even when the person turning the knob was fully inside the room, he didn't, for a moment, quite register who it was.

"Dmitry Anatolyevich."

Then it hit him.

Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin had entered his office.

It wasn't so very strange on some fronts. Dmitry was Prime Minister, after all, and by some standards the President's closest friend. They spoke daily, though usually over the phone, and often had lunch together. There was no reason why Vladimir should not wish to see him.

But then, when you thought about it, it was quite strange: an unannounced visit, directly to the office, without company... it was almost unprecedented. Usually, if an urgent meeting happened to be in order, he would phone Dmitry first, or have someone call him to his office. In fact, Vladimir hadn't personally called on him like this since Dmitry's presidency, and rarely even then.

"Vladimir Vladimirovich." He hurried to stand as the President walked up to his desk at a measured pace.

Vladimir smiled. The set of his lips was kind, but a touch patronizing... clearly well-meant, though beyond its appreciative quality Dmitry saw a dash of annoyance, a shade of disinterest, a fair bit of skepticism. There was a painful amount of nuance to be read into Vladimir's smiles. But they were so rare, and so sweet - whenever they were there for the reading, however nervous it made him, Dmitry never cared to look away.

He smiled back, part anxiety, part genuine, friendly respect. He hoped the President wasn't upset about something he'd done. Perhaps he'd come to the office in a fit of anger, expecting to give his incompetent Prime Minister a violent tongue-lashing. He didn't look very angry; but then, you could never tell with Vladimir Vladimirovich.

He reached over his desk to shake Vladimir's hand, and was shocked by the lightness of the man's touch. Usually the President would grip a person's hand like an iron vice, unwilling to let go without affirming his superiority, ready to fight a silent battle with those who wouldn't give in right away; but this handshake was different, almost gentle, almost tender, leaving Dmitry's skin tingling. A warmth spread through his body when their hands touched. He felt oddly light-headed all of a sudden: like he was drunk, but in a wonderfully refined way, as if he'd just had a glass of champagne too many.

The moment it was over, Dima flattened his palms against the cool mahogany of his desk, trying--what was all this about?--to keep from blushing. He sighed. Now, by all means, was not the time to act a fool. Something pressing must have brought the President to his door.

"What brings you here, sir?" He asked, the formality of his tone more of a distraction from the situation than anything else.

The question was barely beyond his lips when Vladimir produced, from Dmitry knew not where, a few documents held together with a paper clip.

"If you could just read through these, thanks very much," he replied, curtly, concisely. Still a little confused as to why the documents hadn't, as was customary, simply been sent to his office via a member of the staff, Dmitry bent dutifully over his desk and skimmed through the first page, then the second. Then he stopped, and looked up, unable to contain his curiosity.

“Vladimir Vladimirovich, I must ask. Why did you come here in person?”

Dima, reading through the papers, had been thinking, not about Egyptian diplomacy, as he perhaps should have been, but about Lyudmila Putina. Vladimir's ex-wife. The divorce would be confirmed by the Kremlin within a month; it was becoming, if not more real, then undeniably more present in everyone's minds as the date approached. And it had struck Dmitry that, perhaps...

But no. Vladimir, who had already begun to move towards the door, looked at him strangely.

“Would you rather I not?”

“No, no, of course not--” Dima rushed to correct his misstep. “But this clearly isn’t an emergency, and--”

“Why shouldn't I have come? We are friends, are we not? If I choose to walk down here, it doesn't have to be because some NATO giant has moved into Ukraine, or North Korea is testing their nuclear arsenal on Vladivostok, or anything like that…” He narrowed his eyes. “Or am I bothering you, Mr. Prime Minister?”

His tone was sharp enough to make the younger man flinch.

He took another step to leave, but there was a sort of nearly tangible, charged, electric tension in the room, zipping about between the President and his Prime Minister. It made the humid spring air feel almost muggy, restricting movement to a minimum. Vladimir paused. Dmitry hung on his every movement, almost holding his breath.

Then, suddenly, on an impulse, Dima rounded his desk, went up to Vladimir, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Volodya," he said, almost in a whisper. "Are you lonely?" He'd used diminutive only as an effort to compensate for his obviously needless formality at the beginning of their conversation, and almost shuddered at how pathetically artificial it sounded out loud.

Vladimir, not seeming to mind or even notice, turned and smiled warmly at him.

"Oh! Dear, no, no, no, Dima!" He laughed what sounded like a genuine laugh. "Don't worry. I'm in love."

Puzzled, Dmitry held on to Vladimir's shoulder for a little longer than he should have, and was shocked when Vladimir reached out and touched his face.

He drew his fingers across Dima’s cheek. Every millimeter of skin that he touched fell prey to ecstatic, fiery spasms. This time Dima couldn't stop a warm blush from falling over his face, and again felt the bubbles of that last glass of champagne floating up, tingling on his lips, in his fingertips...

Now Vladimir was tracing Dima’s jaw, now his chin, and now his fingers brushed his lower lip.

"With whom, you ask?" Vladimir's lips twitched, a million of his impossibly nuanced smiles sliding by in a second.

Dima hesitated.

And that was when Vladimir kissed him.


	2. The Kiss

Dmitry didn't have time to be shocked. He didn't have time to process his situation. His brain was too slow to interfere, at least at first. Only his body could respond in time; and the only thing his body could think to do, before Vladimir's lips touched his, was close his eyes.

Volodya leaned forward, his lips hot against Dima's. Dima felt Vova caressing the back of his neck, then weaving his fingers into his short brown hair. His mouth slightly open, Vova pressed for still more, for still closer... he dragged his hand slowly through Dima's hair.

Suddenly, holding Dima close, Vova spun him around and pushed him against the wall. Sliding his hand from Dima's hair, he ran it along his neck, across his right shoulder-blade, down his biceps, and over his chest, tugging lightly on his tie.

By this time Dima had opened his eyes again, and was staring in petrified wonder into the icy blue eyes of Vladimir Vladimirovich. His lips were on fire. His whole body was tingling. He felt dizzy; either Vova was still whirling the two of them around, he thought, or suddenly the world had begun to spin much faster than usual. When he blinked, starbursts flashed behind his eyelids. Vova's hands on his face and chest made his heart race; the pressure of the kiss made him lean his head forward, almost without thinking, reaching for Vova's lips with his.

It was astonishing. The sun, which had been setting, glowed blood-red over everything with twice its usual intensity. His face was hot and his body strained forward as Vova pressed his own against it. He felt as if something big and and passionate and previously undiscovered in him was being pulled towards Vladimir. Taller, more powerful, the man's strength enveloped him; he felt as if he were drowning, swimming in undiscovered depths, choking on clouds, soaring through pure, sunlit oxygen, supported by the arms of this great, this immense man, who—but it wasn't possible—was kissing him.

His hands were aching to do something, so he wrapped his left arm around Vova's neck, and, running his right hand down the older man's arm, pulled Vova's hand from his tie and held it close to his chest. His heart was doing somersaults; his blood was rushing madly in his veins, and his face felt like it must be beet-red. Then, rudely, the outside world broke in on him, and, gasping, he broke away.

“Vova!” He whispered urgently. “There are cameras!”

Vladimir shrugged. “Let them see us,” he said. “What do we have to fear? The guards breathe a word of it, and I give them a permanent criminal record. Two words, I give them death.” He was smiling, a wild look in his Baikal-coloured eyes.

Dima bit his lip, hesitant, eyes on the ground. Vova shook his head.

“You're too self-conscious,” he laughed. “Don't worry. I gave orders for the cameras to be turned off, and nobody will enter until I leave. Highly confidential, I told them.” 

The realization that Vova had come to his office with the sole purpose of kissing him only just had the time to hit Dima before their lips were again interlocked.

Vova pushed Dima's head against the wall, wrapping his arms around him, holding their bodies close. His chest was pressed close enough to Dima's to feel his heartbeat, speeding up to match his own as he paused to draw his lips across Dima's jaw, leaving traces on his cheek and along his throat, before returning to his lips. His fingers wrapped around Dima's, and when his tongue broke the boundary between their bodies, the younger man put up no resistance.

Dmitry lost himself in the kiss. His face flaming, every inch of skin sending off sparks, he fell willingly into Vova's embrace, again shutting his eyes. His tongue wrapped around Vova's, his breathing heavy. He felt blood rush to his groin.

Vova slid his hands down Dima's body, brushing the backs of his thighs. The younger man gave a short gasp, diluting their shared oxygen with surprise and pleasure.

They pressed into each other, the heat of the moment and the intensity of their response to each other buoying both men up as if euphoria were some higher light that could be reached only through forbidden passion.

After what felt like forever, Vova finally broke away, sighing.

“We don't have time. Not here. Not now.”

He wasn't even blushing. Dima, breathing hard, his face the color of a boiled lobster and twice its temperature, silently admired his self-control.

Vova strode over to Dima's desk, and, picking up a pencil, scribbled a note. Then he tore the slip of paper off the notepad, and handed it to Dima on his way to the door, looking as if nothing whatever had happened.

“Tomorrow, six o'clock,” he said as he walked out. And Dima was left staring after him. Dazed, he returned to his desk. Then he sat at his desk, immobile, quiet, staring emptily at the papers Vladimir had left on his desk, for minutes on end, until finally he picked up his coat and bag and left the office, putting the unread note in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

Even at home, in the company of his wife, Svetlana, whom he loved more than life itself, he found himself unable to think straight. 

Having barely processed what had, in fact, happened in his office, he found it even more difficult to understand his own response to Vova's advances. He couldn't recall being attracted to other men before. He had always liked women. He had married Svetlana for love and for no other reason. 

But what if they had gone further? What if they had had time? He didn't want to admit it to himself, but Dima knew he would have gone willingly. He tried not to think about it too long.

He still loved his Sveta, he truly did. What, then, was this—affair?—with Vladimir? Was it the man's high standing that he found attractive? His air of power?

Dima, beside his wife, slept fitfully that night.


	3. Fighting Plato's War

The next day, aside from a couple of worrying transmissions from Sevastopol, work went on very much as usual in the Russian White House. Vladimir was nowhere to be seen—Dmitry had every reason to assume he was in the Kremlin, where he should be—and the place was calm. 

The Prime Minister read over reports and press releases. He signed and sent off the piece on Egypt from yesterday, with his comments. He practiced, in a vague sense, answering some expected questions for an interview the following week. All in all, things were going pretty smoothly until four o'clock in the afternoon, when he found himself sitting in front of his desk silent and immobile and alone, clutching his cell phone, his heart beating, it seemed to him, obscenely loudly.

He had looked up the address on Vova's note: an expensive-looking restaurant that made itself out as “authentically French”. He supposed that, in Russia, that could mean the owner's cat's mother-in-law had once lived in Normandy. Nevertheless, the food was certain to be excellent, and the implications were clear: Vova wanted to take him to dinner. 

As a lover.

He had planned to phone him now. He would firmly decline the invitation, he told himself; he would, symbolically, break from that whole episode yesterday evening, he would refuse Vladimir's advances, his conscience would be at least somewhat clearer, and he'd be able to go home to Svetlana _sans_ the heavy-hearted daze he'd been in the night before.

But he struggled to find the nerve to do it.

He didn't want to remember what had happened yesterday. He was blushing with shame at the thought of it. He couldn't question it or understand it; all he could do, and all he needed to do, was to make this call. Yet he couldn't bring himself even to look at the phone.

It was four fifteen now. If he wanted to get to dinner on time, he thought, he should leave at five. Five fifteen, at the absolute latest. It would be rush hour.

He shook his head, scolding himself for thinking such a thought. He would not be going to dinner.

He went through his options. He could call Vladimir. He didn't have to say it directly. He could call on the pretense that he wanted to discuss the Egypt documents, or anything else. He could have his secretary call and “tell Mr. Putin that our appointment is off.” 

But, on second thought, those methods seemed rather pathetic on his part. He didn't want to look weak. He had to give a sense of decisiveness, of resolve. He couldn't leave anything open. Give Volodya an inch, thought Dmitry, and he'll take the entire Crimean peninsula.

It was four twenty-five now.

He called down to the kitchen for a drink. For courage.

Now he was staring at the screen of the phone, his fingers hovering over the buttons. Surely, he thought, the risk could not be so great; he was married, after all, and Vladimir knew it. What could he possibly expect? Dima to get divorced for him? He was a man!

But every time he readied himself to make the call, a cold ball of dread rose into his throat, and he pulled it back in a hurry. He could feel that ball in his chest now, dripping its chill into his stomach.

The drink arrived. Whiskey and soda. It was four thirty.

Had he fed the fish? He couldn't remember. He tried to recall... He'd come into the office, there'd been that message about Merkel from Shuvalov, whom he then went and spoke to, and when he got back to the office... ah yes! He'd had to call the Crimea officials, and hadn't gotten up from his desk since. He stood and walked over to the fish tank.

It was four forty by the time he was done feeding the fish. He'd wiped off the tank, too, for good measure. His senses were marginally dulled.

He switched on his computer and scanned the net for news stories about the Kremlin. Of course, nobody could think about anything but Ukraine. “Unmarked militias” and “little green men” were in everything from Libération to The Economist. You couldn't find a single English-language segment that didn't contain the words “Russian military”, not if you looked for hours, and even some Russian reporters seemed to be getting anxious. Dima sighed.

Four fifty-five.

A call came through from Surkov about—what else?—Ukraine, giving him something to do, and leaving him infinitely relieved, at least for a little while. Thank God for the Ukrainian crisis: a sentence he would never in a million years have imagined himself forming.

It was twenty past five when, finally, he picked up the phone again. But it's too late now, part of him was thinking. You call now, you sound like you're backing out at the last minute. Better to go and say what you have to say to his face.

He tried to ignore that part of himself. It was a valiant effort. His fingers trembling imperceptibly, he dialed the first one, two, three numbers. Then, suddenly, though not entirely unexpectedly, he gave up. He nearly threw the phone at the wall. _Forget it!_ He raged silently at himself. _I'll tell him when I get there._

The decision made, he grabbed his coat and rushed out of his office, telling the doorman as he left the building that, if anyone asked, he was holding an urgent meeting with the President.

“And if nobody asks, sir?” The man replied, as the door slid shut behind the Prime Minister, who was busy loudly and animatedly calling for a car, and hadn't heard.

In the car, he gave the driver the address and asked to be taken there as quickly as possibly, and for the rest of the trip sat silently in his seat, his arms crossed, knees drawn in, pulse quick and cheeks pink in an agitation that was part guilt and part apprehension.

He didn't care to think about whether or not there could be other elements to his blushing.

He thought for a moment about simply not showing up, and waiting for Vladimir to call him; but it would be too rude for his purposes. One wanted good relations with the most powerful man in the world, and besides, something like this shouldn't make enemies of friends. If he didn't have the guts to call him to cancel—his stomach lurched at the thought of his own weakness, and the situation it had trapped him into—he should at least make his point of view clear to Vladimir in person. No use for him to go on thinking they were...

Arriving at the restaurant ten minutes late, he dashed in and found the owner standing at the door, smiling genially. “I'm with Mr. Putin,” he said, in a voice which, what with his anxiety about his own lateness, amounted almost to a stage whisper. Embarrassed at his odd tone, he reddened and darted his eyes around the room to see who else had heard. The restaurant was reasonably busy; he hoped nobody had noticed.

“Ah, Mr. Medvedev! Mr. Putin hasn't arrived yet.” Dima breathed a sigh of relief. But of course Volodya would be late. He should have thought of it earlier. “I'll show you to the table. Would you like anything to drink?” The man was slightly fat, and spoke in a painfully artificial-sounding, vaguely European accent.

“Just water will be fine for the moment, thank you,” he said, trying to keep ahold of himself. He couldn't drink himself out of this.

“Very well, sir.” He was led into a private room of the restaurant, containing a single two-person-sized, round table and two chairs. It looked like it had been set up specifically for Vladimir's purposes. It was almost romantic. “Shall I bring a drinks menu just in case, sir?”

Dmitry nodded dismissively. He realized that he hadn't changed into evening clothes. Oh well. His work suit looked smart enough. This wasn't a date, and Volodya was always better dressed than he was anyway.

Twenty minutes later, his genially smiling host led the far colder-looking President of Russia into the room. Vladimir stood by the door until the restaurant owner, leaving the room, had shut it behind him. Then he went up to Dmitry, who stood to shake his hand.

When Vladimir lifted his hand, however, it wasn't to shake Dima's; instead, smiling wryly, he took the hand Dima had extended with more tenderness than Dima would have thought him capable of, brought it to his lips, and kissed the back, as if it were a lady's.

Dima fought to keep down his rising blush, and, rather awkwardly if not exactly reluctantly, snatched his hand away.

Vladimir didn't seem shocked so much as genuinely concerned. “What is it, Dima?” The tone was demanding. As if he'd only just opened his eyes, he suddenly sensed the tension in the room. “Is it Ukraine? I'll deal with Ukraine. Don't worry. I'll work it out. I'll send you—”

“Vladimir.” Dima wanted his voice to sound stony and cold, but it was shaking. Goodness. He was a wreck. Oh well, it was too late to turn back now. “It isn't Ukraine. At least...no, it isn't—that's not all of it. Vladimir Vladimirovich..." he resisted the urge to use a diminutive, "I—I don't... I don't—I'm not... I can't...”

“For God's sake, Dima, say what you mean!”

“I'm not attracted to men,” was all that, finally, he could get out.

Vladimir showed no signs of surprise. He rarely did. “Well, they do warn you about straight guys,” he muttered, an ironic smile on his face. There was a kind of pervading undertone of, "but I'm the President of the Russian Federation. I can have whoever I choose."

Dima shook his head. “No. I mean it. I... I can't be here. With you.” He struggled to make himself clear. “I can't be your... lover. I'm happily married. I love my wife. I'm not about to have an affair." He took a breath. "And I'm not a homosexual,” he added.

This time, after a pause, Vladimir laughed.

"So naïve..." he sighed.

"What on earth do you mean by that?" Dima retorted, indignant, uncomfortable. Vladimir didn't flinch.

"Oh, Dima! You know so little of the world, my dear!” He declaimed, rather too dramatically. “I loved Lyudmila too, when our love was younger. I truly did. But I loved others as well. Loves are not mutually exclusive, Dima. It's one thing to love a woman. It's quite another with a man. Oh, Dima, remember yesterday...”

“Vladimir...” Dmitry said weakly, his last defenses torn down, part of his ego still screaming at him to object, somehow, _object, disagree, rupture!_ But he hadn't the strength to do it. Volodya's hands were folded around his and he wanted to melt to the floor.

“Dima, don't do this to yourself! Remember yesterday? You loved it as much as I did. You responded so excellently. Can you deny it? Can you deny that you wanted me, that you reached out to me, and that you missed me afterwards? What are you doing here if you didn't? You poor boy. It must be torture! Oh, no, my poor boy. Men must love women, of course. But this is a different matter. You must understand.”

Dima was barely listening at this point. It made no difference any longer. It might have been the touch of Vova's hands, or the possessive pronouns, or any number of other things, but gradually he realized that he couldn't defend himself. Every fortress, every wall had been burned to the ground. His heart lay wide open, and when Vladimir kissed him again, this time on the lips, it seemed that he was striding confidently in for his victory lap. 

He knew then that he hadn't refrained from canceling dinner because he was afraid of Vova's reaction, or shying away from a confrontation, but because, from the deepest depths of himself, he hadn't wanted to. And, with the warmth of Vova's lips pressing against his, he forgave himself for it.

He kissed back, hesitantly, late, but with meaning. Vova's tongue slipped into his mouth; his breath intertwined with Dima's; his hands fluttered over Dima's face. And when Vova broke away, Dima felt strongly the absence of his warmth, and almost kissed him again, but decided not to take things too quickly.

A view of things that Vova obviously didn't share, when, halfway through dinner—an ordinary dinner, with a conversation altogether too serious and disappointingly political, although sometimes one would reach out and take the other's hand—he said, almost to himself, in a musing, speculative tone: “What if I took you home?”


	4. Lovers from the Kremlin

By then, the two had been drinking and talking in the restauraunt for hours, and the drink made Dima careless. Careless enough almost to forget about Sveta, smiling at Vova's suggestion. Nothing seems quite as preposterous as it should when you're drunk and in love.

Thankfully, Vladimir, with his monumental self-control, seemed barely intoxicated at all, and, as the two men finished their meal, he personally phoned Mrs. Svetlana Medvedeva to tell her that they had run into some problems, that their meeting might last longer than expected, and not to worry if Mr. Medvedev didn't return until very late. In fact, he said, it could be necessary for him to remain at the Kremlin until the following day. 

He expressed his apologies and thanked her for her understanding; asked if she wanted to speak to her husband. When she said yes, he handed the phone to Dmitry, and watched him carefully as he repeated to her the general gist of his story, told her he loved her, wished her well, and hung up.

When the host came in again, asking if he should send the bill to the Kremlin or if Mr. Putin would pay directly, Vladimir—telling him to bill the residence—asked for their coats to be brought and a car to be called.

“Mr. Medvedev will be accompanying me to the residence,” he said.

Vova held Dima's hand the whole way there, making Dima's skin tingle and his cheeks redden. They talked about their children. They talked about the state of the judicial system. They were cautious: the driver could hear them, and Vova, in a way that seemed rather out of character, respected Dima's wish for secrecy.

Upon their arrival at Novo-Ogaryovo, muttering to various maids and butlers that they were going to his study and not to disturb them, they made their way up two flights of stairs. Walking through the halls, Dima smiled, remembering dinners here with both men's wives, and his anticipatory ecstasy was tinged with nostalgia. Vova led Dima to what looked like an unused guest bedroom, and locked the door.

“Sit,” said Vladimir, gesturing to the edge of the bed. Dima obeyed. Vova smiled. “You've never been with a man?”

“Of course not.” Then, hesitantly: “Have you?”

“Yes. Usually not seriously. But I did have an interest, once. Quite a while ago. You don't know him. Nobody from the Kremlin.” He stood in front of Dima, a wry smile at the edges of his lips.

“Volodya.”

“Yes?”

“You do realise what this is.”

"What is it, darling?"

Dima hesitated: "Homosexuality."

“I suppose it is. Power does that to a person.”

Dima, unsure whether or not to accept that explanation, nodded fractionally, uncomfortably.

“No, but really! You've seen how the G8 leaders talk to each other,” Vova went on, smiling. “The way Harper looks at Cameron! He wouldn't mind praying to _him_ , I'll bet.” The two laughed. “You know, Hollande has a thing for Tusk, too. Obvious to high heaven.” More laughter.

“And you?” Dima asked, jokingly, but still hesitantly.

“What about me?”

“Do you..." He raised an eyebrow comically, still a little uneasy - "... _like_ any of them?”

Vova, feigning contemplation, didn't answer immediately.

“Obama?”

“No!” Half laugh, half exclamation.

“Renzi?”

“Oh, I suppose he's alright...” Vova said slowly, playing the game.

“I think he likes you.”

“Does he?”

“I think he does.” And they lapsed into giggly, schoolgirlish laughter, every breath lifting iron weights from their shoulders, Vova standing before Dima and then leaning over, hands on Dima's shoulders, then arms around his neck, embracing him, laughing, joy, joy! Their lips brushed together for a moment. Both were growing more and more pressingly aroused.

“And in the Kremlin?” Dima stopped laughing for long enough to ask. 

“Oh, I don't know...”

“Come on!” Dima, grabbing Vova's shoulder lightly, playfully, glowing with happiness.

“Well, Dvorkovich is certainly into _you_.”

“How could you know? You barely talk to him!”

“Does he gaze at everyone like that? I do admit I only ever see him at meetings.”

“Vova!” Vladimir was still standing in front of Dima, nearly doubling over with laughter. “But Surkov is obsessed with you,” Dima added.

“I know he is! And why shouldn't he be?” Always laughing. “I used to think I might have fancied him.”

“Hold on, seriously?”

“I did. I did. Not like... this. But there was something. Ages ago.”

“Very reassuring. He practically lives with you!”

Both were still smiling. “Are you jealous? I hate to remind you, but you're the one who's married!”

Dima's heart sank for a second. “You yourself said it was different with men.”

“Of course it is.”

And then Vova kissed him again.

Softly at first, once. Then a second time, harder; pulling them together, bending down, reaching to bring Dima's lips closer to him, wrapping his hands around the back of Dima's head. Dima, too, reached out; put his arms around Vova's torso as Vova stooped to kiss him, holding him tightly as their mouths, their tongues and lips, reaching out, touched once; left; rejoined; separated; pressed together again.

The two collapsed onto the bed, Vova following Dima's lips with his lips, following him down, crawling onto the bed with him, pressing close, chest to chest, Dima's legs dangling over the side of the bed. Dima felt Vova's heartbeat through his shirt, Vova's hand on his chest, warm, urgent, exciting. His hands were on Vova's hips, and Vova's tongue was in his mouth, and everything in him was aching and craving. 

Not for anything would they have separated now, joined by everything crying out in them to be released, not for the world.


	5. Fever Pitch

Dima drew his hands over Vova's chest, slowly, their tongues still entangled. Their eyes locked. Dima was trapped in those eyes. They were that icy Siberian colour he had always associated with mercilessness, and in any other situation, he would have found them frightening. But here they were, gazing into his eyes, and the man was kissing him, and he didn't know if he was afraid or not any longer for the intensity of everything else he was feeling. 

He thought he sort of liked not knowing. Fuck, he had never known how he felt about the President. Especially not now, with Vladimir in his lap, tongue down his throat. It made his heart pound, not knowing what to think, not knowing what was going to happen. He dragged his hands across Vova's face and around to the back of his head and he ran his fingers through the thin blond hair, holding him close, drinking in every one of his features.

Vova was slipping a hand down between them, massaging Dmitry through the fabric of his trousers; then he was grinding into Dima's hips and they were grunting and moaning and they were not sure where one breath ended and where the next began. Dima heard himself gasp. The room felt very warm.

It was all struggling and grasping at clothes and flesh and awkward angles and there was heavy breathing. Vova straddled Dima. Dima gripped Vova's muscular shoulders. Each felt the other's erection pressing into his thigh. 

Slowly, Dima found his hands sliding over Vova's biceps and onto his chest, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. He tore his lips away from Vova's, and dragged his kiss hungrily down the man's neck and across the slant of his collarbone, leaving Vova's skin burning wherever he touched it. Barely thinking, Dmitry let his lips drift lower and lower with every button he pulled open. Finally he pulled Vova's shirt off. His hands were all over the man's torso.

Vova's breathing was ragged, raspy, his heart struggling to escape his ribcage, body trembling, lips pressed against Dima's forehead then loosely wandering his brown hair. Eventually he wrapped his strong arms firmly around his partner - Dima froze - and pulled him back onto the bed, lips pressing into his as the two tumbled, teeth clashing ands elbows and knees and he wasn't getting any younger but it was so _good_ , impossibly good.

They clung to each other and their hearts were the war drums of the princes of Muscovy. They settled and Dima was on top of Vova. Extracting himself from their embrace Dima stared down at the President, half-naked, cheeks flushed, that smile - that smile and all the multitudes it contained - pulling at the corners of his mouth. And then he was Napoleon's generals, coming upon Moscow; it was too much and he could not look away. He waited.

Vova was slow. Languorous. His hand slipped under Dima's shirt and over his back, tracing the line of his belt before unbuttoning his trousers. A shiver of excitement ran down Dima's spine. Vladimir's fingers wandered into unmentionable regions. Dima let out a short gasp, then pressed his lips closer to Vova's, kissing him sloppily, passionately.

The end of his tie fell onto Vova's bare chest, and Vova, reaching back up, grabbed hold of it, pulling Dima's lips down his neck again, over his chest, just touching his skin, feeling as if he had a fireworks going off in his nerves, until the lips reached his belt buckle. There he stopped, not yet letting go of the tie.

Dima got the hint and his hands moved to Vova's belt—in passage brushing the tight bulge in Vova's trousers, making the older man inhale sharply—and unbuckled it; pulled the trousers down. The bulge, through his boxers, now clearly revealed itself. Dima, inexperienced and nervous about this kind of thing, hesitated for a moment, but then couldn't bear to delay the act any longer and so put his head down and thought that whatever it felt like it couldn't be _bad_ , if it was so tempting, right? He kissed the bulge once through the fabric, eliciting another gasp from Vova, then slipped the underwear off as well.

He took Vova's throbbing erection into his mouth, trying to imagine what a woman would do. At first it seemed wrong, all wrong, and he almost stopped; but it became natural far more quickly than he would have expected. He fell into a rhythm and began - admitted to himself that he had begun to understand the appeal of the act. Within minutes he realised he found it wildly erotic. Vladimir, supporting himself on his elbows, abandoned his self-control and let out deep grunts and groans of pleasure that went straight to the bulge in Dima's pants. Dima reached down with his free hand to palm at himself, almost desperate with desire.

Vova dropped the necktie and caressed Dima's forehead, ran his fingers through Dima's short hair, and Dima was thinking, _Oh, God. Oh God, yes._ He sucked and kissed and went further than he thought he could, and Vova groaned and gasped.

After a few minutes, Vova finally got a hold of himself.

“Mitya. Come here.” he ordered, his voice commanding, if a little shaky.

Dmitry did as he was told, lifting his head and lying down beside Vova.

Systematically, he was undressed. First he threw aside the shirt and tie, planting kisses all over Dima's chest and face as he did it, until Dima felt like he was on the point of melting; then the trousers, stroking the insides of his thighs; and finally his boxers. 

He touched his lips once, as Dima had done to him, to the tip of the younger man's erection, making the whole of Dima's body tremble.

Then Vladimir reached for the bedside table. There was something - condoms? lubricant? - in the drawer. Dmitry chose not to question it. Vova's hands explored Dima's back, the angle of his shoulder-blades, the ridges of his spine, the gentle slope of his tailbone, the fleshy curve of his butt. There was a sudden, unfamiliar sensation, Vova's fingers probing his nether regions, and Dima gasped loudly. There were sensations of a sort Dima had never even imagined. Peaks of pleasure, the pounding of blood in his temples. It was like that for a while. Then slowly, spreading his lover's legs, Vova inched in, groaning - the fit was perfect.

At first, he was careful with Dima, knowing it must be his first time. There was some pain, but more than that Dima was simply shocked at the newness of feeling himself filled by another man, a sensation he had never experienced before and had never expected to experience. Slowly, gently, Vova thrust once inside of him. He let out some exclamatory sound.

“Hold yourself together,” grumbled Vova, panting gently but still authoritative.

It was not altogether unpleasant even at first; and as it went on, and Vova began to thrust more quickly and more violently, Dima also began to enjoy the sensation more and more, until he was panting as deeply as Vova was, and feeling the tingle of Vova's bare skin against his dwindle in comparison with this quite unexpected wave of pleasure.

 _So this is sodomy,_ , he thought, for a moment, before his thoughts scattered again and he was lost in it.

Vova was gasping and moaning, every thrust a new height of ecstasy, and at every one Dima, too, sighed and moaned. And gradually Vova felt himself sailing into a euphoria he couldn't remember having felt before, not with Lyudmila or any other woman, and not even with any other man, any of those he had known so long ago.

There was just something about Dmitry. Something he was direly in need of.

He slowed for a minute, basking in pleasure, delaying the imminent explosion.

"Keep going," begged Dima, between gasps. "Please. Faster."

Vladimir smirked, his eyes wild.

He held tightly onto Dima's shoulders; he was moving furiously now, savagely. There were nails digging into hips and moans and _Oh, God_ and _Oh, yes_ and _Right there_. He bent his head to kiss Dima's cheek, then he bent further and Dima turned his own head, and they kissed hungrily, desperately, thrusting, fast, hard, sighing and moaning into each other's mouths, breathing heavily.

"Vova... this is..." Dima's voice was a hoase whisper, his eyes shut. "Oh... this... Vova... ohh..."

Vova reached down to stroke Dima's engorged member, the touch of his experienced hands drawing loud moans from the younger man. He was still thrusting, faster, harder, gasping, moaning, their cries and breaths indistinguishable in the night air, and Dima felt every part of himself burning and shaking and exploding at once, and Vova felt that his own skin might crack and peel right then and there and that at this fever pitch of passion he wouldn't care a bit.

And then, sighing one last, loud sigh of ecstasy, knowing it was too much, knowing he couldn't restrain himself any longer, he let himself release inside his partner, and Dima, soon after, in a final spike of pleasure, stained the bedsheets beneath him. Slowly, Vova rolled over to lie beside Dima, who turned as well, and for a while the two simply lay there on their backs, shuddering, naked, looking at each other, Vova throwing an arm across Dima's stomach, Dima carding a hand through Vova's hair, breathing heavily, both their faces reddened, their limbs trembling.

After a time Dima, leaning to the side, kissed Vladimir softly on the lips, and asked him if they would be sleeping here.

Vova considered the situation for a moment. “You... _ejaculated_ on the bed,” he remarked finally.

Dima was silent.

“But if we were to find another bedroom we'd have to dress, have to compose ourselves.” He tugged at the stained duvet cover. “We don't need this We'll have each other's heat. If you could get your weight off it for a second—” which Dima did, and Volodya pulled the affected blanket from underneath him and flung it across the room.

He smiled bitterly. “I'll have someone come and pick it up for the laundry. I wonder what they'll think of me then...” But the bitterness lasted only a second. He could never stay angry at Dmitry, and besides, what was there to blame him for? He drew back the tangled sheets, and gestured for Dima to make himself comfortable.

Dima slid himself under the blanket as Vova moved away for a moment to turn out the light. Then, in the dark, he heard Vova crawl into bed beside him. Wrapping an arm around Vova's body as easily as he'd ever done so to his wife, Dima closed his eyes blissfully.

Each must have thought a hundred more times that night of their intimacy, of the warmth of it, and smiled a hundred more times into the silence, before finally drifting off.


	6. Nineteen Eighty-Five

“And you will be leaving for Dresden in April.”

The words echoed in Vladimir's ears as he stepped off the train onto the paving stones of Leningrad. He had been in Kiev for longer than a year now, and very soon he was to be sent off to East Germany. He felt that the whole world was buzzing with excitement. He would be a real spy now; he would steal documents and engage in shady deals with European informers; hide information or be forced to burn it; or at least, as he had been told, recruit foreigners to work undercover in America.

It would be just like in _The Sword and the Shield_.

A cool breeze stung his cheeks and kissed his brow as he examined the city sky. The February clouds were grey; the February sun was dim; and, furthermore, it was Valentine's Day.

It was a fad. He could hardly remember last year's Valentine's. There was much more of it this year, pink hearts and flowers and love poems strewn about. The gaudy decorations and droopy red roses were all Western and tasteless. Still, he felt impulsive. Today his feet seemed to know exactly where they were going. He strode with a purpose, his face set and his gaze sharp. He didn't feel like heading home yet; perhaps he would go to the office and get his passport stamped. He was only a junior officer, but he walked with the air of a colonel. As if any civilian even knew the difference. They couldn't point to a colonel's insignia if it were pinned to a bull's eye.

As he walked, confident that he could practically get away with murder with this uniform on, a voice in his head whispered: _This is the kind of attitude that costs you your badges._

I couldn't care less if I tried, he told that voice silently. He was leaving for Germany. He was invincible.

He had by now reached a street corner on which there was a small restaurant, a sort of mock-Paris bistro, in front of which, despite the chill, several couples were sitting at little round outdoor tables, chatting amiably, cheeks and noses red from cold, glowing with happiness.

Vladimir, having noticed one of the couples in particular, now stopped in his tracks, and, stationing himself near the table, trying to look official, stood and admired the view.

It was not the woman he was looking at. Normally, perhaps, it would have been; but this woman was quite plain, not particularly attractive or even interesting-looking. No, Vladimir was gazing at the man. He was handsome enough. Not terribly tall, but rather broad-shouldered, he seemed to occupy the visual space, to fill it somehow. He had a boy's face, and a boyish expression to go with it, but one was certain that he could speak intelligently on the most complex of subjects just by the look of him. He was speaking animatedly now; his hands gestured, waved in the air, settled on his lady's arm and then on a book placed face-down on the table, then fluttered up again, flying, illustrating.

Vladimir wondered what he was talking about. A smile tugged on his lips as he watched the man pause in his discussion to enjoy a slice of cake. 

It was always boys like this who caught his eye. Not as in a homosexual urge, of course; when he was younger, he had been rebellious in that respect, but only out of a hooliganish desire to spite the authority. This, now, later in life, was only an appreciative attraction to certain individuals, a respectful admiration of their qualities. It had nothing to do with sex. He stepped closer to the couple's table, hoping to hear some snippets of conversation. He would usually have left by now, satisfied with only a glance, but today, he thought, he had time to kill.

“But all said and done it is quite obvious, Svetlana,” the man said, lifting a glass of red wine, “that somehow it must all have begun in Leningrad. It's the only possibility.” His elegant wineglass met his lips. He took a sip, muttered something, looked up again. “You understand?”

Vladimir was watching the young man's mouth, letting his mind wander.

The woman nodded, smiling a kind, apologetic smile.

Vladimir noticed that the man kept moving his hand to touch the little green book beside him as he talked. With some effort, he managed to make out the lettering on the spine:

_We – Yevgeny Zamyatin_

Zamyatin... where had he heard the name before? He couldn't recall having read the book. Perhaps someone he knew... a school friend, maybe...

And then suddenly, like a whipcrack, it dawned on him.

He had seen the name on a banned-books list on the wall of one of the rooms in the propaganda branch. This man was in possession of illegal literature. And he very well knew it, judging by his anxious behaviour. He wouldn't keep touching it if he thought it was innocent.

Vladimir's mind was racing. His thoughts were passing him by at a mile a minute. What was the code for a situation like this? How far should he go? And then there were his own interests to take into account. Finally he stepped forward and placed the gloved tips of the fingers of his right hand on the table, squaring his shoulders. He had perfected this act years ago; he looked serious, powerful, a touch aggressive.

“I'm afraid you'll have to come with me, sir. And bring the book, please.” He said in a cool, level tone, watching as the man paled markedly. He noticed the terrified look on the woman's face. “Your date should probably go home,” he added.

The man whispered a few words to her, and she scurried off, quite agitated. He left some money on the table, to pay for the wine and cake, and finally looked up at Vladimir.

“Yes, sir?”

“Follow me.”

Vladimir led the other man towards the police station for a while, then, not quite thinking, diverted into an alley and paused. 

He felt almost like a teenager again, impulsiveness rising in him by the second, his heartbeat quickening, adrenaline making him blunt.

“Who are you?” He demanded, slowly removing his gloves. It was a fear technique, and it was startlingly effective. The other man's pupils were dilated absurdly. You could fall right down into eyes like that if you weren't careful.

“D-Dmitry Medvedev, sir. Student of Law. Leningrad State.”

“And what are you doing in this part of town?” Vladimir pretended he was insensitive to the man's—Dmitry Medvedev's—anxiety. It was unnerving, and he knew it. He could have his fun with this man.

“A... a date, sir. With my fiancée. For Valentine's. Sir.” And the man threw a quick glance over his shoulder, as if he expected to see his lady waiting at the end of the alleyway. So. He was engaged.

“You're aware that you're carrying illegal literature.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Yes, sir.” Medvedev's hands gripped the book tightly, his knuckles whitening, and his voice quivered slightly, but, all in all, he was holding himself together. He took a breath. “I don't believe that the people of the Soviet Union need to be shielded from anti-Soviet views. If the regime can be torn apart by writings like these, perhaps we truly are in a desperate state. This book was outlawed under a fragile government years and years ago, and it isn't a threat any longer. It's only a book.”

In fact, he was holding himself together quite well.

Vladimir frowned. He didn't know the book beyond its title; he couldn't argue anything specific. But the law was the law. He made some sweeping generalisations and closed in for the kill.

“We don't give our people imperialist propaganda to read. Is that so—” and he raised his arm—“Unreasonable?” At the last syllable, his hand struck the side of Medvedev's face with a sharp clap. The younger man grabbed his cheek.

“No, sir. Of course not, sir.” Oh, he was so submissive! So antisocial, with his reading habits and all the rest of it, but at the core so wholly submissive! Vladimir felt his muscles contract, his heart racing. He was enjoying himself. “Forgive me, sir, please, I've already been reported once, please, sir, I—” he looked as if he were about to get down on his knees. Not that that would've been a problem.

“Be more careful, for fuck's sake!” Spat the KGB agent. “Carrying the book around like that.”

“I will, sir.” A pause. “Sir?”

“I won't report you.” Vladimir's hand was still tingling from the touch of Medvedev's skin.

“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you, thank you, my deepest grat—”

“I'll take the book, though,” interrupted Vladimir.

Dmitry Medvedev, obediently, held out the book. And that was when Vladimir made the most impulsive, the most dangerous decision he'd made that evening.

When his fingers, taking the book, brushed Dmitry's, he suddenly pulled the young law student close and kissed him on the lips.

They'd always said he had no sense of danger.

His skin tingled all over as the other man's warm lips touched his. Dmitry Medvedev tasted like sugar and red wine. Their bodies were pressed together, and the book fell to the ground as he ran his fingers through Dmitry's brown hair. At first, the student tried to pull away, shocked; but he only stumbled, and Vladimir, stepping forward and slamming the other man against the wall of the alleyway, was only too willing to force him into compliance.

By this point Vladimir couldn't really be said to have any consciousness of what he was doing. He was losing himself in the excitement of the kiss, in the unadulterated pleasure of indulgence, which, training and then working for the KGB, he hadn't had the chance to experience in so many years. Crushing their lips together, he began to feel undeniably aroused.

To his mild surprise, the other man seemed to feel the same way; the bulge in his pants pressed against Vladimir's thigh.

Noticing this, Vladimir slipped his tongue into the other's mouth.

Their warm, wet tongues intertwined and overlapped, the men pressing into each other, Vladimir with his arms around Dmitry's neck, smelling his cologne—for his date, he thought passively—and Dmitry, back against the wall, with a fistful of the KGB badge on Vladimir's sleeve in one hand, and the other hand resting on his chest.

Dmitry was the first to break away, breathing heavily. He seemed ready to collapse in the agent's arms. Vladimir kissed him lightly on the neck.

“I'm going to Germany,” he said. “But I'll come back. I'll remember you. Where do you live?”

“This is against the law,” Dmitry muttered. “Article 121. Stalin's decree.” He flinched a little when he said "Stalin". Not a cult-of-personality sort of a kid.

A wry smile twisted Volodya's lips, and he eyed the book on the ground. "Since when did the law matter to you?" 

"In case you'd forgotten, I _am_ attending law school at the moment."

Vladimir wrapped his arms around the other man's waist.

“Don't worry about it. When we meet again, the rules won't apply to us. We'll be the tsars, Dmitry.” 

And, ready to sink into another kiss, he looked up, briefly, and saw the brightly coloured towers of Saint Basil's Cathedral above them. They had somehow been transported out of the Petersburg alleyway and into Red Square; or perhaps they had always been there. Vladimir sighed when the realization hit him: that it was a dream.

He didn't have time to kiss the young dream Dima again before the sunlight, slipping through the gaps in the curtains and dancing enthusiastically on his eyelids, tossed him back down to Earth.

Lying beside the real Dima, his Dima, in the warm, clean bed, under the same blanket, his lips still tingling, he smiled softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know when Dima and Svetlana got engaged uhh lol


	7. Beautiful Morning

The sunlight traced Dima's forehead and cheek with that soft vigour it only ever had on cool mornings. Vova watched as, seeming to rustle the curtains and, slowly, to push them aside, the pale light slid over Dima's pillow, highlighting the gentle curve of his lips, his long eyelashes, the tips of his ears. For a long while Vova lay like that on his side, deafened to the passage of time, watching, a faint smile playing over his face.

The Prime Minister—Vladimir giggled softly and almost guiltily at the thought of it—the Prime Minister of Russia was sleeping beside him in a guest room in his own residence.

That was the kind of thing that made a person's heart want to keep beating, even when half his electorate wanted him to resign and the Kiev government was being overthrown and the G8 was meeting in Brussels without him. That was the kind of thing that let you know you could handle it. That you were the most powerful man in the world.

"We're the tsars, Dima," he whispered smilingly, remembering his dream. "It's what they all say, isn't it? The tsars of sovereign democracy."

Lethargically, as if through molasses, he dragged an arm through the late-morning air and with one finger traced Dmitry's nose, his lips, his eyelids... My lover, he thought, his fingertip brushing Dima's cheek, he is my lover. Finally. And he touched his chin and his temples and his eyebrows and brushed back strands of his hair, which were brown, but which shone like gold when they floated up in the soft morning light.

After a time he stretched and sat up. Sliding the blanket off, careful not to disturb his lover, he stepped onto the cool floor, and quietly began to dress himself in yesterday's clothes.

The light, which was by now streaming brightly through the gaps in the curtains, danced with some force over the bedsheets, hitting Dima's bare shoulders and delicate eyelids. Vova, buttoning his shirt, stopped for a moment to admire, again, the yields of his conquest. The Prime Minister stirred.

“...Mm... time is it, Svetochka?” He muttered drowsily, eyes still shut. Then he yawned. “My head feels odd...” And he rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Where on Earth did I get to last night?... Oh!” Opening his eyes and seeing the President of Russia standing half-dressed at the foot of the bed, let out a short gasp of recollection. “Volodya!”

“How much did you have to drink, Dima? It couldn't have been much more than I had.” Vova smiled.

“Oh, I don't... I don't know... Volodya. Vova, Vovka, Volod'ka.” Dmitry wanted to hold out a hand. To blow a kiss. To say, 'You are spectacular. I don't know if it is the morning light, or the proximity, or simply the memory of intimacy, but oh, you make my heart pound, you make my head spin. You make me feel like a boy with a crush. You are an alcohol, you are a nectar—' But instead he only pushed himself up to recline against the pillows, grinning like an idiot. Blushing, too, as Vova shrugged his shirt on over his shoulders.

Eventually, as Vova tied his necktie and buttoned his cuffs, Dima murmured, abstractly:

"I guess this is the time to tell you I love you."

He received no response. Perhaps Volodya hadn't heard him, but he didn't dare repeat his sentence in case it had been ignored purposefully. He frowned, disappointed, worried, now, that his Vovka wasn't looking for anything more than a one night stand. But in this light the feeling couldn't last long. Vladimir turned to him. 

“Come on, get up. Get dressed. We'll have breakfast downstairs. No, have a shower first. I won't have anyone seeing you in this state. Although I would say you look rather pretty this morning.” A brief, kind smile.

Dima, somewhat reassured, did as he was told.

He showered in the bathroom that branched out of the bedroom, and left the door unlocked out of some folly. He kept hoping, as the water poured down his back and dripped off his nose, that Vladimir, roused by a sudden rush of libido, would throw the door open and step into the shower with him, not waiting to take off his clothes, and run his hands over Dima's skin, kiss him, whisper to him, take him from behind—

He was half-hard merely at the thought of it, and bright red with embarrassment.

He got out of the shower, in some dark corner of his mind still imagining Vova's tongue in his ear, rinsed his face with cold water in an attempt at regaining his composure, and stepped out of the bathroom with a towel tied around his waist.

Vova had opened the curtains a ways, and was standing in a narrow rectangle of light, his arms crossed, his back to Dima, looking out at the city of Moscow. He looked great. He looked powerful. He wasn't tall, but he had a certain air of majesty about him. He would have made a monumental tsar, had he been born into that age.

“Well? Don't just stand there. Get your clothes on,” he snapped, without turning around. He seemed to be able to see just as well when he had his back to a person as when he was facing them.

Years of KGB experience, Dima told himself as he picked his pants up from the floor.

“You know, I dreamed of you last night, Mitya.” He said it calmly, coolly, still facing the window.

Dmitry's face turned crimson again, and no effort of will could reverse the effect.

“Did you? And what... exactly... did you dream about?” He managed to stutter.

“It was I'd say in the mid-80s. Just before Lyuda and I left for Dresden. Met you and Svetlana in a café. God knows why, but you had that Zamyatin book on you—that old hunk of counter-regime literature. I was going to arrest you. Dragged you into some back alley. Slapped you. We ended up snogging.”

“Scandalous!” Was all Dima could come up with, half laughing, his imagination running wild. The pink in his cheeks was anything but receding.

“Scandalous indeed,” repeated Vladimir, also laughing softly. “It feels silly now, to tell it. But you were in Len-in Petersburg at that time, no?”

“I was, yes. Studying law.” There was a warmth now in the room, replacing the earlier tension, and Dima was glad of it. 

“Yes, yes, I know that much. Well, hurry up. Here's your shirt,” Vova said, plucking Dima's shirt from the discarded blanket and handing it to him.

“Vova,” began Dmitry as he slipped the garment over his shoulders.

“Yes?”

“The other day. In my office.”

“The cameras were on. I lied to you.”

Dima allowed this little shock to pass him over, knowing that nobody would ever dare make any sign to show they had seen anything. It had been worth it, he thought. He went on:

“Vova, you said you were in love.”

“It's what I'll tell the press, and for once it's the truth.”

“With me?” Dima almost hesitated to believe it, even after the events of the previous night.

“No, Dima, with Alina Kabaeva! With Vladislav Surkov! With Anna Chapman, the fool!... Why, of course it's with you!”

Dima, smiling gratefully, buttoned the last button on his shirt, and trailed over to Vladimir, aching for a kiss. Vova gave him only a quick, frustrating peck in return, and Dima set to worrying again. Oh, well. Perhaps Vova had inhibitions. He could only wonder at his own lack of such things.

“Get your tie and your jacket. We need to get to breakfast. It's past nine,” he said, eyeing his watch.

Was the man being paranoid? Since when had Vladimir Putin cared for punctuality?

Dmitry wondered in silence as the pair descended the stairs, he wanting badly to hold Vova's hand but not quite daring to. Vladimir spoke blandly about Chechen economics to make the space between them feel less empty. There was clearly something missing, and both of them knew it.

Vladimir, ever the intelligence-trained expert in human relations, sensed it with the most force. Halfway down the stairs, still going on about the naxar, understanding that this gloom was not an acceptable condition to proceed under, Vladimir resolved to fill that space, and as quickly as possible. Had Dmitry had any of Vladimir's training, he might have felt the mood shift then, suddenly and dramatically. Vova's steps were less stiff. He made more eye contact. The air was almost tangibly warmer. Morning light filtered through a row of tall windows lining the hall at the base of the stairs, striking gold into the men's hair and eyes. Vladimir decided to change the subject.

"Do you ever play badminton, Dmitry?"


	8. He Smiled

Sitting together at breakfast, talking animatedly about Skolkovo and oil prices, the two might have seemed the picture of innocence. Their voices dropped a tone when Ukraine was brought up, but otherwise, nobody could have found any point on which to suspect that anything out of the ordinary had happened the night before. This delighted Dmitry. He whispered as much to Vladimir, a grin on his face.

“Oh, other than the fact that you spent the night in a guest room in the residence, and that I was also, interestingly enough, for some reason not in my usual room... which of course nobody will question. Though I would have, in their place.”

Vova said this out loud, normally enough, not even in a Ukraine tone. Dima shrugged, blushing. Soon a staff member—Dima didn't notice much about the person—came in with the sports outfits Vova had asked for when they had entered the dining room, laying them on the chair beside the President.

The room was large and the ceiling high, and the table stretched nearly all the way from one wall to the other, long and ornate and laboriously polished, under chandeliers and between walls of bright, rich marble. Dima knew the room well, but being just the two of them there made him feel slightly uncomfortable. He wondered if it was intentional on Vova's part. Vova was the sort of man who couldn't feel safe unless everyone else was either very slightly uncomfortable or wholly submitted to his will, and one was clearly easier to attain than the other. Dima wanted to tell him that he didn't have to act that way around him, that he would give him whatever he wanted if he would only ask. But he didn't.

They talked. Dima let his mind wander. He felt like asking if Vova ate in the dining room every day, even when he was alone. He felt like asking about Lyudmila. He felt like asking about lovers. 

“Who was he?” He thought aloud, after a brief silence.

“Who?” Vova looked up from his toast.

“The man you were with. Years ago.”

"I'm sorry?"

"You said you'd been with another man once."

“Oh, that. Nobody. Nobody important.”

“Did he have a name?” Dima crinkled his brow at Vova's reluctance.

“I'm sure he must have.”

“Do I know him?”

“I couldn't say. It's possible.” Vova stirred his coffee absently.

“A politics man, then?”

“You've no right to know. Orange juice?”

“No, thank you. I'd like to know. Won't you humor me?”

“Alright. Fine. Yes, a politics man,” sighed Vova.

“And what kind of a man?”

“Nobody special.”

“You still see him sometimes?”

“Ah, you jealous little bastard. Yes, occasionally. On political matters. And strictly political.” And Vova bent his head over his food again, as if the conversation was over, before, a few seconds later, adding: “Don't worry, it isn't Surkov. In case you were wondering.”

“I wasn't, actually.”

“You should have been.”

“You're contradicting yourself. Was it him or wasn't it?”

“It wasn't. You should learn to listen.”

“Who was it then?” Dima didn't care if he seemed rude. He was curious. The whole situation was strange enough.

“Nobody. Are you going to be finished? Will you have any more coffee?”

“Why won't you tell me?” Even Dima could tell the man wanted to change the subject.

“You don't need to know.”

“It was him, wasn't it? Vladislav Surkov?”

“No.”

“I can never tell when you're lying to me.”

“I believe that is the idea.”

Dima made up his mind to leave the subject alone for the moment. There were some things you had to sacrifice in courting a president, and perhaps this was one of them.


	9. Badminton

They lingered by the table for a while, chatting, checking the sizes on their outfits. Dima tried not to wonder for too long where Vova had gotten his clothing sizes. Even Vova, who could be so daring, didn't make any moves.

Eventually he set off down the hall towards the badminton courts, gesturing for Dima to follow.

For a while the two walked awkwardly side by side, shooting glances first at each other and then at the two members of janitorial staff who were mopping the floor at the end of the hallway. Then their eyes met. It was electric; Dima's gaze was bound magnetically to Volodya's polar blue eyes. Suddenly, Vova stopped walking and grabbed Dima's hand. 

Dima, in a panic, tried to jerk it back, but Vova held tight, and as hard as Dima tugged, Vova barely twitched. It didn't take long for Dima to give up and resign himself to Vova's will. 

He thought he heard Vova whisper his name, but he wasn't sure. It could just have been a sigh.

“Do you have anywhere to be?” Vova asked. “It's Saturday.”

“Not really. Svetlana understands.” Dima smiled. “Prime Ministerial duties. All that.”

“Svetlana understands,” Vova mimicked.

“What?” Dima was a bit put off, and tried to take his hand back again.

Vova only gripped it tighter. “What does a woman understand about a man like you?”

“What are you implying?”

“That you're in love with me.”

“I'm in love with her, too. Or at least... at least I was. And I am, still, in a way.”

“Don't _I_ understand?”

“You said it was different,” was all Dima could muster.

“It is.”

“Then why are you constantly comparing yourself to her?

“Isn't it obvious?”

“You're jealous? Don't be. She's my wife. You're my lover. It's different.”

“If you like. But listen to yourself. We're beginning to sound like some romantic tragedy. Don't throw yourself in front of any trains, dearest...”

He had said it in a drawn-out, mocking, nineteenth-century aristocrat sort of a way, but Dima felt a blush rise in his cheeks. Dearest. He was euphoric. His heart was in spasms. _Dearest._

They walked briskly down the halls, parting ways at the changing rooms out of some dim, lingering sense of duty to at least try and keep up appearances somewhat. 

It was only when he strode out of his changing room to see Vova, with his back to him, stretching, that Dima realized how tight the outfits were. This had implications that he blushed nervously at the thought of. 

Perhaps all the keeping-up of appearances would have to be in vain.

Still, they managed to play for a while without getting too distracted. It was an admirable effort by any standards. 

But then Dima fell.

It wasn't a dangerous fall; he wasn't badly injured. But it wasn't something he could just brush off either. He slipped and landed heavily on his back, and the air was knocked out of his lungs. He just lay there for a minute, trying to get his breath back so he'd have the strength to get up.

Vova strode over, worried.

“Are you alright?”

“I'll be fine,” Dima grunted.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Anything broken?”

Dima moved his limbs experimentally. “No. Just a minute—” He tried to lift himself onto his elbows. Vova frowned and knelt down.

“How much do you weigh?” He asked, softly, almost to himself.

“Why—” The word was hardly past Dima's lips when he felt Vova's arms around his shoulders and under his thighs, and felt himself lifted up, Vova's muscles straining against his body. The bulge in Dima's shorts, which had for a while verged on becoming problematic, was now hard to ignore.

Vova held him close, their bodies warm. Dima raised his head and Vova leant down to kiss him, and they stood there like that for God knows how long, lips locked, eyes shut.

After a while, smiling in the knowledge that the time for keeping up appearances was now clearly over, Vova carried Dima with him into one of the changing rooms. And if anyone heard anything, they knew better than to breathe a word about it.


	10. Epilogue

It wouldn't be the last time. Nothing of the sort. They saw a lot more of each other from then on.

They visited each other in their offices. They would lock the doors and inevitably end up abusing some mahogany desk or another. The two of them would show up late to meetings, tousled, still adjusting their shirt sleeves. Nobody commented.

They went on dinner dates. It would be the five-star places Vova went to for diplomatic meetings. It would be the first thing that caught their eye on a Friday night joyride. It would be a nostalgic favourite in Petersburg. Nobody was allowed to see them unless they gave explicit permission. Dima often got home very late.

They went to the theater. They watched movies at Novo-Ogaryovo. They listened to Dima's CDs. Vova would frown his archetypal Russian presidential frown, but he was always diplomatic about Dima's tastes. Once Vova put on Pink Floyd himself, without even a whisper to prompt him, and Dima's heart felt like it had grown to twice its usual size. Yes, Vova was, for the most part, far too much of a president and far too little of a person. But it worked out, with the Russian people, in the end. That was what they were looking for.

It seemed to be what Dima himself was looking for as well, though God knows he would never have guessed it, not before that night in his office.

And that was what was so strange about this whole thing. His reaction to it. How little he understood their courtship, even after a year, two years, more. It baffled him. How could such a thing possibly have come about? It couldn't have been so sudden as it seemed; if law school had taught him anything, it was that there was no such thing as sudden change. 

There must have been more to it than just that. At least on Volodya's side, there must have been something eating at him, some desire suppressed for months or years - they had known each other for so long - that had finally, violently, culminated to a point, with him slamming the head of his government against the wall and kissing him. And Vova, despite his reputation, was not a reckless man in his personal life. He wouldn't do a thing like that if he hadn't been sure it would work. Something must've showed... Dima must have been giving him signs, somehow. Subconsciously, perhaps. Maybe it had been going on for weeks, for months. Maybe he'd played all the right keys to accompany a tune he hadn't heard until just now, a perfect but oblivious partner in someone else's passionate quatre-mains. Maybe, in some fit of dramatic irony, he had for years cast all the right parts in a romance that had until so recently gone straight over his head.

But of course, all things considered, one could simply say that they were in love, and that none of it was very strange at all.

**Author's Note:**

> The views on homosexuality espoused by the characters in this story are not shared by the author! Obviously!


End file.
